


i've been brave before, i swear

by alexanger



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Hurt No Comfort, M/M, terminal illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-15
Updated: 2017-12-15
Packaged: 2019-02-15 01:33:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13020459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexanger/pseuds/alexanger
Summary: steady mewhen i start to fallthe precipice is endless,so deadly





	i've been brave before, i swear

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fuckerson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuckerson/gifts).



Aaron has missed the taste of snow. He always misses it, in the in-between months. There’s nothing like the crisp mint feeling of snowflakes melting on your tongue, he says to Alex, who’s huddled, shivering, inside two coats and under a blanket.

“I don’t care,” says Alex. The colour has risen in his face. He shakes his hair forward to cover his forehead and cheeks and adds, “it’s too cold for any rational human being to be outside.”

“Oh, come on. Toughen up,” says Aaron. He packs a snowball and Alex makes a panicked sound halfway between a groan and a screech.

“Do  _ not  _ throw that, or I will murder you horribly,” Alex threatens.

“I’d like to see you do anything when you’re wrapped up like a burrito. You can’t even walk over here,” Aaron says. He scoops up more snow, adds it to the snowball, grins at Alex like a man possessed, and hefts the weapon in his hand.

“You’re an asshole,” says Alex.

“An asshole with good aim,” says Aaron, and before Alex can throw himself out of the way, he hurls the snowball with deadly accuracy. It hits Alex in what would be his chest if the blanket wasn’t in the way.

“Oh,  _ fucker,” _ Alex growls, and he drops the blanket and launches himself forward. By the time he actually makes contact, Aaron is doubled up with laughter; Alex hits him like a cannonball and the two of them collapse into the snow. Aaron can’t stop laughing, even as Alex sits on him and punches his arms and chest softly. “I’m gonna kick your ass,” Alex says, but he’s laughing too, and his blows are more like soft taps than anything else. 

Aaron grabs him and rolls them both. Alex gasps and yelps, “shit!” as he’s pressed into the snow. There’s more colour in his face than before and more fight in him, and it’s a struggle for Aaron to keep him pinned. It isn’t long before Alex gets the upper hand and Aaron is the one who’s being shoved into snow, while Alex perches on top of him, grinning viciously.

“Okay, okay,” Aaron pants, as snow falls down into his collar and cuffs. “Okay! You win!”

“Now tell me I’m pretty,” Alex says.

Aaron heaves a weary sigh. “You’re the prettiest. You already  _ know  _ that.”

“Damn right I am,” says Alex. He flops on his back in the snow beside Aaron. “That was an easy fight.”

“I knew you’d like the snow once you got moving a little,” says Aaron.

Alex pouts. “I do  _ not  _ like the snow. I just like you, is all.”

“That’s gay,” Aaron points out helpfully.

Alex rolls into his side, shivering, and presses a kiss to Aaron’s cheek.  _ “You’re  _ gay.”

“Astute observation. I thought you were gonna kick my ass,” says Aaron.

“Mm, suspended sentence. I’ll save the ass kicking for the next time you bully me. Are you going to warm me up?”

Aaron is still, even after all this time, shy of kissing Alex. He tilts his chin down and looks up at Alex through his eyebrows and says, “if you want me to -”

Alex, as dependable as always, puts two fingers under his chin, gently guiding his face up, and leans forward to close the distance between them. Each kiss is like the first time - Aaron goes warm head to toe and feels the bottom drop out of his stomach and the world gets a little bit brighter, a little bit softer around the edges. He sighs into the kiss and Alex giggles and just like that, the cold biting of snow doesn’t seem to matter quite so much.

 

* * *

 

“Do you ever think about sports?” Alex asks.

“Not really,” says Aaron, as he stirs hot chocolate mix into a saucepan full of milk. “Not my cup of tea. Why?”

“It must be so weird,” says Alex, “to have so many people know your name, and then - not. Like, there are the ones who retire and they’re famous forever, but - not everyone gets that. You know?”

“I don’t think it’s any different than any other kind of greatness, you know? Everyone gets forgotten eventually,” says Aaron.

“I’m scared of being forgotten,” Alex admits.

Aaron looks over. The wasting has already begun - Alex looks smaller, now, a little less filled out than he had when they met. “No one could forget you,” says Aaron. “You’re too obnoxious.”

Alex laughs, but it’s a hollow sound. He’s silent as Aaron pours hot chocolate into their favourite mugs, the matching ones with cats printed all over them, and brings them to the couch. “It’s hot,” he says, unnecessarily, handing a steaming mug to Alex. “Don’t gulp it.”

“I’m not five years old, Burr,” Alex says, but there’s no venom in his voice. He grins as he takes the mug and mimes pouring the whole thing down his throat.

Aaron cringes a little. He can’t help it. “Be nice to your throat,” he says. “You need that.”

“Show me one thing I need a throat for,” says Alex. It’s supposed to be inviting, Aaron knows it is, but he refuses to rise to the bait.

“I guess you don’t need it after all. My life would be a lot quieter without you making noise all the time, and if your throat is gone then you’ll be a hell of a lot less noisy,” Aaron says.

“Wow, ouch,” Alex pouts.

“Don’t be a butt and I won’t be one back,” Aaron tells him. “How’s the hot chocolate?”

Alex takes a sip and pulls a face. “Hot,” he says.

“That’s a given. Did I make it the way you like?”

“Don’t worry so much, Aaron,” says Alex. “You make it perfect every time. It’s hard to fuck up hot chocolate.”

“That’s not what you said the first time I made you hot chocolate,” Aaron starts, but Alex cuts him off.

“Yeah, ‘cause you used  _ water  _ for it. That’s a crime. You have to use some kind of milk, or it just tastes like warmed over garbage.”

“You’re warmed over garbage,” Aaron says.

Alex grins, carefully puts his hot chocolate down on the coffee table, waits for Aaron to do the same, and then tackles him. Aaron is gentle when he wrestles back, afraid of breaking Alex’s thin limbs. He knows, logically, that he won’t snap him in half - but Alex has gotten so scrawny and small that it’s hard not to worry about hurting him.

Alex is panting before long. He gives up wrestling and simply tucks himself against Aaron’s side, his chest shuddering as he struggles to get his breath back.

“I wish I could do more,” Alex mumbles. Aaron gets the feeling that he wasn’t supposed to have heard that, and so he makes no response. It’s enough just to put his arm around Alex and hold him close.

“You should drink your hot chocolate,” is all he says.

Alex sits up, grabs his mug, and obediently takes a sip. “It’s great, Aaron,” he says. “You know what would be perfect, though? Marshmallows.”

“I don’t like marshmallows,” Aaron admits.

“Me neither,” says Alex, “but they’re fun sometimes. I think the only thing marshmallows are actually good for is hot chocolate.”

“Smores,” Aaron offers.

“And smores,” Alex agrees. “Nothing else.”

“Nothing else,” Aaron echoes.

“I don’t want to go,” says Alex, and he bursts into furious tears.

Aaron takes the mug from Alex’s hands and puts it down before scooping him into his arms. “Hey,” he says. “Baby, breathe. You remember how to breathe through it, right?”

Alex’s chest is heaving as he struggles to squeeze enough oxygen from the air he’s breathing in. Aaron can’t fathom what that must be like, to be drowning in the open air. It keeps him awake at night as he listens to the hiss of the oxygen mask Alex has to wear to bed. It must be, he thinks, like drowning in the shallow end of the pool, with your legs gathered under you but refusing to propel you towards safety. He can’t comprehend such a terrible betrayal of the body.

Alex gets a hold of his breathing and it slows. His hands, knotted in Aaron’s shirt, relax a little. All of a sudden Alex is a broken doll, far too pliant, far too relaxed, so limp that Aaron has a moment of panic. It’s too soon, far too soon, to worry, but still -

Alex takes a deep breath and shudders apart into renewed tears, and Aaron kisses the top of his head. The worst thing about these moments is how helpless he is. He was never the man with all the words - that was Alex, a fountain of perfect language, full of words rich and sweet like raw honey. There are no words for moments like these, when the body begins to fail. There’s no way for him to help aside from rubbing Alex’s shoulders and back and telling him to breathe.

“I’m okay,” says Alex, and he hiccups and dries his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Are you okay, Aaron?”

And what a  _ ridiculous  _ question that is. Aaron is not fine. He hasn’t been fine since the moment the doctor gave them the news.

“I’m okay, love, don’t worry about me,” is what he says, and he refuses to cry, because he knows Alex is the only one with the right to, these days.

 

* * *

 

The hiss of the oxygen mask keeps him awake. Aaron stares at the ceiling and thinks of summer, the heat and the sun and the way the sky always seemed too close, too heavy, bearing down on his skin. He thinks of Alex shirtless at the beach, both of them bare from the waist up, running in and out of the waves - and Alex was always a little wary of them, at least at first. He thinks of the crashing and roaring of the surf and as the oxygen mask hisses he tries to line up his breathing with it in the same rolling, thundering rhythm. The hissing could be waves on the sand. The warmth in the room could be thick summer air, not a radiator.

Aaron sits up, takes off his shirt, and lays back down. He’s colder now but he can put a hand flat on his chest, feel his skin, feel his heart racing through his chest. The hissing could be anything but an oxygen mask. He wants it to be waves. He wants to be shirtless in the sun with Alex. He wants to find those brighter days and stay there, away from the dark winter cold, away from the terrible news that rules their lives.

If he were a weaker man, he would have left.

It’s impossible. This is impossible. This can’t be Alex lying beside him, shrunken and wasting away, all bones and angles and too-thin skin. There’s something ugly inside of this beautiful man and it’s starting to devour him.

This can’t be Alex, this thin, lanky man with the hair falling out and the tube in his stomach.

He reaches over and for a moment his hand hovers over Alex’s head. He wants to bury his fingers in what remains of that gorgeous raven hair, but he’s afraid of pulling it all out. Aaron pulls enough of it out of the shower drain; he’s terrified of seeing it come away from Alex’s head in his hand. 

So he withdraws and lays flat on his back and looks up at the ceiling and imagines better days.

It’s hard to imagine the sun on a night so dark.

 

* * *

 

Aaron usually stops at the grocery store on his way home from work on Tuesdays. He skips it tonight, however, knowing there’s so little time left with -

No. Scratch that.

He skips it tonight, however, knowing that there’s a movie Alex has been dying to -

Stop it.

He skips it knowing that there’s a movie that Alex really wants to see, and Tuesdays are two-for-one nights at the movie theatre. They could go any night, of course, but Alex worries about money now with the oxygen tanks and the treatments and how much it costs to feed him through that little tube in his stomach.

Aaron notices a cab outside the apartment building, just loitering in the driveway of the parking lot. He honks at the driver, who honks back and waves for him to go around.

“I have to get in, asshole,” he mutters, honking again. The driver just waves at him again, so he parks on the street and settles for glaring at the driver as he lets himself into the building.

“Alex?” he calls, walking in through their front door. “I thought maybe we’d go out for a treat tonight, instead of -”

He walks into the bedroom and cuts himself off. Alex is standing by the bed with two suitcases beside him, in the middle of shoving his sleeping equipment into a duffel bag.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” says Aaron. “Going somewhere without me?”

Alex jams his hands into his pockets and hunches over, as if afraid of a blow. “I just -”

“Alex,” says Aaron. “What are you doing?”

“I thought - we know where this is going, right?” Alex asks. “Why play it out like this? I don’t want you to see me like this anymore.”

“Alex -”

“And I don’t want this to be the way I remember you. I don’t want you plugging the Kangaroo into my feeding tube anymore, Aaron. I don’t want you cleaning me up because I can barely shower myself anymore. I sure as hell don’t want you watching me die.”

“Please don’t do this,” says Aaron.

“I have to,” says Alex. “I left you a letter.”

“Please,” Aaron begs.

“I’m done, Aaron. It’s done. I’m sorry.” Alex steps forward and holds Aaron tight and for a moment Aaron can forget how bony he’s become. He breathes in the scent of Alex, the scent of medication and antiseptic and illness and underneath that the dark scent that just means  _ Alex, _ that smell that he remembers from those summer days.

And then Alex lets go and gathers his things and they’re too heavy for him, they’ll break him in half -

Alex pushes past him and leaves the bedroom, leaves the apartment, and Aaron is frozen and by the time he can move enough to run to the door, Alex isn’t in the hallway anymore. He’s gone.

Aaron can see the front of the building from the living room window. He watches as Alex gets in the cab, and as the cab pulls away, there’s a hollow thudding inside of him. He feels dry and empty, like a bird’s bones.

There’s a letter on his pillow.

It starts with:

_ Dear Aaron, _

__ _ If I were a stronger man, I would have stayed. _

 

* * *

 

The melting of the snow is always messy. Aaron hates the way it turns to slush, hates the way the world goes brown and grey. 

Hot chocolate makes him think of Alex now. They haven’t had any contact since Alex left, and Aaron wonders if there’s still an Alex to reach out to. He’s never tried - the letter had told him not to, the letter had said  _ a clean break would be easiest  _ and Aaron has never been one for disobeying direct orders, but it stings. All those years together and that’s all the goodbye he gets.

Aaron spits into a melting snowbank and cradles his hot chocolate in his hands and walks towards the library like he has some sense of purpose. There isn’t much for him, nowadays, not a lot to live for. He works and he comes home, and he goes to the library and comes home, and sometimes he sees friends and comes home, and the apartment is always empty and cold and it still smells like antiseptic and Ensure. He still remembers the way the bandages he’d put around Alex’s feeding tube smelled. There was something indescribable about that special padding he’d tape down, something in the scent that he can’t put into words, but he can remember it without even trying. That smell comes into his mind sometimes when he sleeps.

He sleeps with a white noise generator on. There’s an app on his phone that has a sound like waves crashing. He closes his eyes when he hears it and imagines that the hissing of the waves are an oxygen mask.

Alex’s phone number is still saved in his phone. He’d thought about deleting it - thought about it a lot more than he should have, probably - but he could never force himself to do it. Every so often he opens their text history and just reads over their conversations. Things like  _ hey can u pick up milk  _ are enough to bring him to tears. Sometimes he thinks of that calm domesticity, the fact that once there was someone there to ask him for little favours and now there isn’t, and he aches so badly at the cleaving that, he imagines, even a funeral couldn’t have been more painful.

Because there’s been no funeral. Aaron takes a sip of his hot chocolate - made with hot milk, never hot water, hot water makes it taste like warmed over garbage - and bile rises in his throat. He’d never been told about any kind of funeral, so it must not have happened. Right? Maybe Alex insisted on it. Maybe he was cremated quietly, his ashes given to his foster family.

Or maybe he’s alive.

No, Aaron thinks, he can’t be alive. If he’d been alive all this time he would have reached out. He would have said something. He can’t be alive, because the alternative - that he’s alive and staying away from Aaron, letting him suffer this uncertainty - is worse.

He opens their text history and his thumb hovers over the keyboard. He knows he’s not going to get to the library. These days, his energy runs out so fast that it’s a miracle he ever gets anywhere at all.

_ Miss you, _ he types, and then he deletes it.

He turns around and walks home. When he gets home, he dumps his hot chocolate in the sink, then folds himself onto the couch and turns on the TV. He doesn’t know what he’s watching. It doesn’t matter. It’s not Alex.

_ I’ve been thinking about you a lot these days, _ he types instead, and before he can stop himself he hits send.

What happens to phone numbers when someone dies? They must be reallocated, he thinks. They wouldn’t just waste a phone number. It’s so bizarre - he’d always thought of phone numbers as possessions, or better yet, some kind of ID, something that belongs so firmly to somebody it may as well be a defining feature. But they aren’t ID, they aren’t possessions, they’re just borrowed, something easily taken away -

His phone buzzes.

It must have been given to a stranger. It must have, because Alex is dead, Alex is gone, and there’s no one there on the other end who would know who he is.  _ Who is this?  _ is probably what the text says. Strange that the person would have responded at all. If he’d gotten that message from an unknown number he certainly wouldn’t have replied.

He picks up his phone and glances at the screen and his heart stops.

_ been thinking about you too, _ the reply says.

And Aaron puts down the phone, gently, like it’s a man with fragile bones and too-thin skin, and he cries, and he cries, and he cries.

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos keep alex alive. chat to me at [alexangery.tumblr.com](http://alexangery.tumblr.com)


End file.
